


The Two Percent Amounts to Everything

by ruethereal



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-30
Updated: 2010-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-10 08:05:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruethereal/pseuds/ruethereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's occasional desire to learn maths is an entirely selfish one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Two Percent Amounts to Everything

**Author's Note:**

> For Shika-unnie, _saeng-chuuuu_

If he wanted, Arthur could get (read: his father to get) a mathematician to tutor him.  It’s a thought that’s wriggled its way into his consciousness on several occasions.  He knows no more nor no less of maths to get by.  After all, as king, he’ll only need to know how to do sums to calculate the kingdom’s rations or the army’s resources.  And even then, he’ll have counselors and tacticians to do most of the work.  No, as king, he won’t need maths--just a keen mind to fit the numbers into the bigger picture that instead involves people’s lives and livelihoods.

So his occasional desire to learn maths is an entirely selfish one: if he was better schooled in maths, he could then possibly calculate the poetic angles to Merlin’s body.  At first, he only saw his manservant as all gangly limbs and ears and no physicality or grace.  But in time, he came to appreciate the underlying fluidity of Merlin’s movements.

Arthur first noticed Merlin’s hands.  Like the rest of his body, Merlin’s hands are pale and slender--pale like the bone-white walls of Arthur’s chambers when painted by the light of dawn about to break the crests of the far-flung mountain ranges--slender like the gravity-lulled branches of the weeping willows reaching for the gently rippling surface of the river in which Arthur swam as a boy.

Arthur comes in contact with Merlin’s hands the most, and Arthur’s found that, what Merlin struggles to vocalize, he manages to relate through touch.  After a particularly stressful training session with the knights, and Merlin is in Arthur’s chambers helping him out of his gear, Merlin’s hands offer reassurance.  They undo his armor with reverence, fingers molding to the slopes of plated metal and the shifting of chain mail, as if Merlin truly does grasp the amount of dedication Arthur puts into training; they strip his sweat-soaked tunic gingerly, palms warm and certain as they scan Arthur’s skin, as if Merlin has learned the areas of Arthur’s body that would be stiff or tender simply by watching from the edge of the training field.

When he feels bold enough to try, Arthur peers down his body or glances at the largest available mirror to watch Merlin’s hands work, spindly and elegant, contrasting strikingly with his own sun-kissed skin, fingers so long they span across most of Arthur’s chest.  And in spite of their knowing menial labor, Merlin’s hands are almost devoid of calluses, unlike Arthur’s which have known sword and bow and reins since before he could label them.  At the same time, Merlin’s hands are not that of a lady’s, soft and unlined, but firm and coaxing, exuding a power that’s undeniably masculine.

Naturally, the focus on Merlin’s hands ascends to Merlin’s arms.  The muscles in Merlin’s arms undulate beneath his translucent skin faintly laced with webs of blue.  It’s a rare sight--Merlin’s bare arms--which Arthur feasts on unashamedly, for he’s only ever seen arms like his own, chiseled and tanned with the sheen of perspiration as evidence of the physical exertion of combat training.  Instead, Merlin’s arms are sculpted into subtle lines that are nevertheless all taut muscle, long and lean and willowy without looking frail or delicate.

Arthur especially likes it when Merlin stands leaning back against the table in his chambers, supporting himself with both arms so he’s gripping the worn woodwork, barely sitting on the edge, with his ankles crossed in a stance of unexpected grace.  He does this often in the evenings, when he’s brought Arthur a tray of fruit or cured meats or cheese, and they exchange a few minutes of easy, comfortable banter.  Merlin’s arms lock at the elbows but never look tense or strained.  And even when his arms are shielded by his sleeves, Arthur can still see the wondrous angles of Merlin’s wrists, thin and bony but, Arthur’s confident, quantifiable.

With Merlin stretched out like that before him, all smooth, boyish planes, Arthur traces the sinuous curve of Merlin’s spine peppered with the alternating concave-convex of vertebrae, all of which Merlin uses when he bends, never _just_ at the shoulders, never _just_ at the waist.  Arthur likes watching the continuous, predictable progression of one vertebra urging the next--visible even through the coarse fabric of Merlin’s tunic--whether Merlin is leaning down to properly tuck Arthur’s breeches into his boots or arching back in a bodily, feline stretch from fingertips to toes.

Sometimes Arthur’s fingers itch with the nagging impulse to trace the length of Merlin’s spine, to feel every swell of the inlaid discs, to map the intricate cords of muscle on either side.  Venturing upwards would lead to the sharp protrusion of shoulder blades; downward, the pronounced jut of hip bones.  The one time Arthur’s hand betrayed him and moved on its own accord, Arthur briefly thumbed the shallow dip tempting him from between the knot of Merlin’s neckerchief and the collar of his tunic, the skin warmer than he had imagined.  The ghost of a touch was both too much and not enough, but Merlin’s questioning twitch of an eyebrow reminded Arthur of respect for boundaries, particularly that of master and servant, and moved his hand to Merlin’s shoulder, squeezing it in a gesture he hoped was one of camaraderie, not infatuation.

Merlin’s expression immediately morphed from polite confusion to genuine acceptance, and Arthur didn’t need to know maths or medicine to realize his heart had jumped to an unhealthy rate, leaving him tight in his chest and twisting in his gut.  Because Merlin’s face, open and expressive, has a wealth of marvelous angles and planes all itself: the gently curving span of smooth forehead, the prominent cheekbones set above distinctly defined hollows, the straight and refined nose sprinkled with freckles Arthur can only see when he gets close enough to be called intimate, the squarely carved jaw, the enticing and inviting fullness of a pair of perpetually-pouting lips.

Arthur never admits, especially to himself, that he spends a remarkable amount of time studying and envisioning the lines of Merlin’s body.  But, if he was to be honest, Arthur would have to admit that, more than Merlin’s hands or spine or lips, he is most enchanted by Merlin’s neck.  Merlin’s neck is completely uncharted, even to Arthur’s hungry, wandering gaze, the view of it always hidden by Merlin’s neckerchief.  And Arthur is _sure_ Merlin’s neck must be the very definition of stunning, despite being such a small stretch of skin.

The evasiveness of Merlin’s neck torments Arthur, tests his willpower and restraint.  Until the one day the opportunity presents itself, and Arthur eagerly seizes it:

They are in Arthur’s chambers, as usual, after Arthur’s led the knights through a whole morning of sparring sessions.  The summer season is at its height, and the thick, stone walls of the castle do little to keep the heat at bay, nor does throwing open all the windows of the room.  Merlin, having just removed the last piece of Arthur’s armor, pauses to swipe his brow with his sleeve, the action capturing Arthur’s attention.

When Merlin lowers his arm to reach for the hem of Arthur’s tunic, Arthur interrupts by grasping Merlin’s wrist.  The thinly-wrought bones jump in his fingers, but Merlin only tilts his head, expression innocently bemused.  Arthur raises his other hand and hooks his forefinger on the fabric gathered loosely around Merlin’s throat.

“Arthur?”

His expression hasn’t changed, but Merlin’s voice is still impossibly weighted with trust, and the familiar writhing feeling starts in Arthur’s belly--he _felt_ Merlin say his name, the damp and heated skin over Merlin’s Adam's apple brushing against Arthur’s knuckle.  Slowly, gradually, Arthur pulls the neckerchief down and away from its embrace of Merlin’s neck.  The cloth is surprisingly soft, obviously worn with age and now woven with sentimentalities where the thread has gone.

When Merlin’s neck is finally free of the neckerchief, Arthur releases his wrist, lifting his hand to palm the side of Merlin’s neck.  Merlin’s skin is already cooling now that it’s exposed to the barely-moving air.  His fingertips pressed against Merlin’s nape, Arthur lightly drags his thumb along the flexing tendon in Merlin’s throat.  Arthur draws his eyes away from the infinitely long, gentle slope where pale neck flows into pale shoulder to meet Merlin’s.

“_Arthur_.”

Merlin’s voice, low and husky, reverberates through Arthur’s hand, and Arthur can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth.  Merlin sees it, returns it, and Arthur takes it as an invitation to continue.  So he does, with greedy eyes, insatiable fingers.  He rests two fingertips in the V formed by the meeting of collarbones; he memorizes the sight of Merlin’s throat as he gulps audibly and takes shallow, erratic breaths.

Emboldened by Merlin’s hushed moan when he thumbs the tender flesh beneath his slightly stubbled chin, Arthur leans forward and angles his face to Merlin’s throat.  He feels his mouth tremble when he brushes it against the soft, warm skin below Merlin’s ear, but in that moment, he also feels Merlin’s pulse racing against his lips and heat spreads through his body, flowing from the fraction of skin at which they are joined and all Arthur can think is, _Yes, _this _is what it is to be alive_.

That first, tentative touch already has him dizzy, and he pulls back, still feeling Merlin on his lips which are unmistakably stretched into a satisfied smile.  He holds up the neckerchief, wrinkled in his fist, and mouths,

“Thank you.”

Merlin, flushed and smiling and looking expectant, whispers,  “What for?”

Arthur pockets the neckerchief, leaning in once more to press his lips to the corner of Merlin’s mouth.

“Everything.”


End file.
